There is a heavy insistence from those close to me that I'm better.
That this dip in my improvement is nothing more than temporary.
After all most flowers must wilt before they truly bloom.
But I am bitter, I feel nothing from these roots.
A shadow of years of practice.
I doubt that I am a necromancer and my talent is dying;
If I try to remain on this path I'll die a failure.
Maybe I should go against my goals for money or fame
Something I can grasp that won't pass through my fingers.
Baby steps towards a future I didn't prepare for but one I'll survive.

Chipped, cherry toned toes, pressing
across the cheap, linoleum flooring,
She's wearing nothing but an
over-sized sweater from a college
she's never, ever been.

And her hands hit her hips,
her grin leaves **** those
smoky-stained calcium cuties,
wrapped by chapped pythons.
In which, you have to admit
that 90's bob bouncing is
as killer as cancer.

Coffee table eyes, glancing,
gliding between every take,
she lifts the bottom of that
balled-up, decade-old sweater,
revealing a tuft of brunette hair;
a place where you can touch her;
where you can escape and stop
lying to yourself, you nihilistic nothing.

II.

Breathing the cold, in the murky-dark,
she, laying on a decadent country,
huddled in my authoritarian arms,
we stared at stars, streaking across,
waiting to escape like them, instead of
relating to those already dead beacons.